by Linda Turner
“Blake!” Startled, she turned too quickly, only to groan as her wound clenched like a sprung trap. “Oh, God!”
Cursing himself, Blake swore and hurried to her side. “I’m sorry! Dammit, I should have said something, but I wanted to surprise you. I guess I did.” Tossing the foam container of Mexican food on the bedside table, he leaned over her worriedly and gently brushed her hair back from her face. “Are you okay? Damn, you’re as white as the sheets. Maybe I should call the nurse.”
“No!” She didn’t want the nurse. She didn’t want anyone but him and it scared her silly. Her shoulder was on fire, the pain raw and biting, but all she could think about was leaning into his strong, sure hand and letting him make everything feel all better. But she couldn’t do that. Her emotions were too volatile, her need for him too strong. And there would come a day in the not too distant future when he wouldn’t be there for her. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t let herself depend on him.
Blinking back foolish tears, she had to force herself to pull back slightly. “I’m fine,” she said thickly. “Really. Just a little sore. The doctor warned me I should move in slow motion for a while. I just forgot.”
Not sure he believed her, Blake stared down at her searchingly. The last twenty or so hours had been the longest of his life. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d started for the hospital, his only thought to see her, when he’d suddenly remembered that she needed to rest, to recoup her strength. So he’d stayed away and filled the time haunting the police station and writing stories that only made sense by the grace of God, unable to concentrate on much of anything but Sabrina.
She was okay. He could see that now for himself, but it was going to be months, maybe years, before he’d be able to push the image from his mind of her lying in the bushes, covered in her own blood. Just barely resisting the urge to snatch her close, he had to content himself with taking her hand instead.
“You, slow down?” he teased. “Because of a bullet? I would have sworn that it would take nothing less than getting run over by a freight train to take the starch out of you, Jones. In fact, I expected to come in here and find you pounding out the story on a laptop.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” she retorted sassily. “I saw your byline—it was good. But my version will be better, so don’t go making the mistake of thinking I’m out of the running to win our bet, Nickels. This is just a temporary setback.” Glancing down at their joined hands, she frowned in bemusement. “What are you doing?”
He grinned and tightened his fingers around hers. “Holding your hand. You got a problem with that, Jones? Because if you do, you’d better speak up. From now on, I plan to touch you every chance I get.”
Her eyes widened at that, but she quickly recovered. “I might have something to say about that, Nickels.”
“You’re damn right you’ve got something to say about it. I’m hoping it’s ‘yes.’” His smile fading, he said gruffly, “I thought I’d lost you, sweetheart. Dr. Richardson assured me after the operation that you were going to be fine, but you’d lost so much blood—”
“You were here?”
“Hell, yes, I was here!” he said, surprised. “Where else would I have been? Over at the Times writing up the story while you were fighting for your life?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know—”
“Because you were still out cold when they let me in to see you,” he said. “Richardson gave me one minute with you, then threw me out of here. Honey, I’ve talked to your nurses at least six times today. I couldn’t come visit you until Richardson gave me the okay.”
“Oh. I thought…” She swallowed, shaking her head as foolish tears stung her eyes. Obviously what she’d thought didn’t need to be repeated. Of course he would check on her and make sure she was all right. He was a caring man—she’d seen the way he looked out for his grandfather and knew from firsthand experience just how gentle he could be. He wouldn’t dump a wounded woman on the hospital steps, then head for work as if nothing had happened. “Forget I said anything. I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself.”
“Considering what you’ve been through, I’d say you were entitled,” he replied. “I guess you heard Vanderbilt confessed.”
“No! When?”
“After his diary was found. He won’t ever hurt you again, honey,” he assured her quietly. “In fact, Kelly said the D.A. is going to make sure he spends the rest of his life behind bars.”
Relief coursed through her, but the news brought her little joy. The women Louis killed weren’t the only ones who lost their lives—he’d lost his, too, and she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“I’m just glad it’s over.” She sighed. “Maybe now life can get back to normal.”
“Actually, I was thinking you should take a vacation when you get out of here and just forget all this for a while. It’ll do you good to get away.”
Surprised, she smiled faintly. “There’s the small matter of my job, Nickels. If I left now, you’d steal all my readers while I was gone, then I wouldn’t have a job to come back to.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to go with you. Tell me where you want to go and I’ll take care of the reservations.”
Stunned, Sabrina just stared at him, sure he was teasing. But his eyes were dark with an emotion that set her heart tripping, and she’d never seen him more serious. Suddenly breathless, she said huskily, “You want to tell me what’s going on here, Blake? I think I missed something.”
For an answer, he drew her hand to his chest and pressed it to his heart. “You didn’t miss anything, sweetheart. I just never asked a woman to marry me before and I’m not doing a very good job of it.”
Sabrina couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d asked her to do a striptease in front of the Alamo. He wanted to marry her. Her heart turned over at the thought, joy flooding her. Then she remembered, and the smile blooming on her face vanished.
“Blake, you know how I feel about marriage—”
He cut her off with a kiss, stealing her protests and her thoughts before she had a chance to put up her guard. Softly, sweetly wooing, his mouth played with hers, gentling her, seducing her until her head fell weakly back against her pillow and her blood hummed in her veins. And when he finally let her up for air, it was to discover that he’d stretched out with her on the bed on her good side, uncaring who might walk in.
“Blake, please…”
“Oh, I plan to, Jones,” he groaned, nuzzling her ear. “Just as soon as you’re strong enough, I plan to please you until neither one of us can move.” Lifting his head, he gazed down into her eyes. “I love you, sweetheart. You’ve got to know that.”
She did. Somewhere deep inside, she’d known it the first time they’d made love. She’d felt it in his touch, his kiss, seen it in the heat of his eyes and recognized the same feelings in herself.
The truth hit her from the blind side, shaking her to the core. No, she thought, swallowing a sob. She couldn’t love him. She could care for him, want him, need him more than she needed her next breath, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t let herself love him. Pain squeezing her heart, she pressed trembling fingers to his mouth. “Please, don’t say that,” she whispered in a voice that had a tendency to crack. “It can’t change anything.”
“Honey, it changes everything if you love me, too,” he argued earnestly. “If you don’t, tell me now. I won’t bother you anymore.”
One word, a simple no, from her and he would walk out, just like that. He wouldn’t pressure her, not if she didn’t love him. He’d laid his heart on the line, and the next move was hers. If she couldn’t return his feelings, he’d wish her a nice life and that would be it. They would be finished.
It would come to that eventually when he found out he couldn’t change her mind about marriage, but she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him. Please, dear God, not yet. And what would it hurt to tell him, anyway? she reasoned. It wouldn’t change anything,
not in the long run.
“It isn’t that I don’t love you—”
“Then you do?”
“Yes, but—”
“I don’t care about the buts,” he said quickly, kissing her fiercely. His grin broad, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again. “You’re not your mother or your grandmother. Just because they made mistakes doesn’t mean you will.”
“I already have,” she reminded him. “Or have you forgotten Jeff?”
He dismissed that with a flick of his hand. “Harper’s not even worth bringing up. You married a man you didn’t have a damn thing in common with. The two of you together were doomed from the start, and I certainly don’t blame you for having the good sense to quit beating a dead horse. I am not Harper.”
She had to laugh at that. “No, you’re certainly not.” He was as different from Jeff as West Texas was from the Gulf Coast. “But there was a time I thought I loved Jeff, too.”
“As much as you love me?”
Caught in the trap of his eyes, she couldn’t deny him the truth. “No,” she said huskily. “I never loved anyone as much as I love you.”
“Then listen to your heart, honey. We were made for each other—you know we were. We think alike, work alike at the same jobs, we even like the same restaurants. We respect each other and love each other. With so much going for us, how can we fail?”
She wanted to believe him, God knew she did. And her heart was on his side—it had been for weeks now. She only had to look into his eyes and feel his hands on her to know that if there was one man on this earth she could spend the rest of her life with, it was Blake Nickels.
Knowing she was going down for the count, she grasped at one last feeble straw. “What about your family? Your parents are expecting you to eventually come to your senses and go into politics, and I just don’t think I’m cut out for that kind of life. I would ask too many questions of the wrong people or say the wrong thing and embarrass the country—”
Stunned, he eased her back into his arms, chuckling softly. “Sweetheart, I’ve found my niche in life, and it’s right here. My parents know and accept that. And my grandfather adores you. If he were twenty years younger and you were thirty years older, I’d have some real competition on my hands.”
He’d shot down her last argument, and they both knew it. Dragging her hand to his heart, he asked solemnly, “Will you marry me, Sabrina Jones? I’m crazy about you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Tears spilling over her lashes, all her doubts swept away by a tide of love so strong that it seemed to steal her breath along with her heart, she grinned up at him. “I think I should warn you that I intend to keep working for the Record. Do you think you can handle competition from your wife?”
His eyes flaring with heat, he chuckled. “Jones, haven’t you figured it out yet? I can handle anything you can dish out.”
“We’ll see about that, Nickels,” she retorted. Sliding her arm around his neck, she pressed a teasing kiss to his mouth. “If I remember correctly, we still have a little matter of a bet to settle. Just because we’re getting married doesn’t mean I’m going to let you off the hook. I plan to beat you soundly.”
He laughed, delighted with her, and pulled her close for a deeper, hotter kiss. He could see already that the next forty or fifty years were going to be very interesting. He could hardly wait.
DANGEROUS DECEPTION
Kylie Brant
For Jason, our budding lawyer. Good luck on the bar—we’re so proud of you! Love always, Mom
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Because I have so little expertise of my own, I rely on experts to get the facts straight in my stories. Special thanks to Jim Harris, of Harris Technical Services, and to Michael Varat, KEVA Engineering, LLC, for your patience with my endless questions about accident reconstruction. Your assistance was impressive in its scope and ingenuity! And another thank-you is owed to Norman Koren, for sharing your wealth of experience in photography. Your kindness was appreciated more than you can know! Any mistakes in accuracy are the sole responsibility of the author.
Prologue
Voices from the grave swirled around him, haunting whispers of murder.
James Tremaine stared sightlessly at the scraps of paper laid across the desk before him and reflected that it was an appropriate enough night for ghosts. The wind shrieked through the sky, shaking the windows of the centuries-old estate with demented fists. The dark clouds shot needlelike shards of rain to stab the parched Louisiana ground, to machine-gun against the house. The single lit lamp in the room had flickered more than a few times in the last hour, but its uncertain illumination wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need the dim spill of light to read the words typed on the bits of paper on the desk. They’d been emblazoned on his mind.
You’ve got a target on your back.
This project will be your last.
The threats were easily dismissed. It wasn’t unusual for competition to rise to a dangerous level in his line of work. But it was the third one, the most recent, that commanded attention. Your parents’ deaths weren’t accidents. Yours won’t be either.
The electricity finally gave up its struggle with the ferocious wind, and the room fell into darkness. James didn’t notice. He was too busy fighting an internal battle of his own. He hadn’t successfully grown a family business into a global security corporation by being easily manipulated. Not even his siblings, especially not his siblings, could realize the degree of treachery that lurked beneath every apparently civil contact in his world. As technology exploded daily with new advances, the race to stay ahead of his rivals was a careening, hair-raising ride.
He’d had far more creative schemes than this thrown his way by a competitor intent on beating him to a potential contract: he’d thwarted sabotage at his headquarters; he’d survived two attempts on his life to remove him from competition permanently; but nothing else had felt quite as personal as the words printed on the last note before him.
With cool logic he considered the possibilities, pushing aside for the moment the emotion churning and boiling inside him. The most likely explanation was business, of course. Dredging up his family’s tragedy from two decades earlier would distract him from the deadlines imposed by the government contract currently occupying the majority of their manpower. Failure to deliver the newest encryption/decryption package for the Pentagon would remove his company from consideration for the next job, which promised to be even more challenging. Even more lucrative.
With his index finger he traced the edge of the message in the center. Money was another possible motive, he supposed. His family was no stranger to the lengths others would go in order to reap profit by inflicting pain. What was the sender hoping for? To whet his interest for a payoff? But for what? To call off a potential assassin, or by promising decades old information in return?
The messages could just as easily come from a crackpot operating for reasons known only to himself. God knew, there were enough of them around these parts. He didn’t need the police to tell him the futility of trying to trace the notes, and with the Pentagon contracts hanging in the balance, just now he could ill afford the resulting publicity.
Lightning lit up the sky outside his den, throwing the interior of the room into momentary relief. A moment later thunder boomed, close enough to shake the graceful antebellum home. But the storm outside paled in comparison to the storm within.
Because there was still a part of him, a part he was struggling to suppress, that wondered if it could be true.
Your parents’ deaths weren’t accidents.
He’d read the police reports. Made the identification. He could remember far too well what the battered, mangled bodies had looked like once extracted from the twisted wreckage of the automobile. A vicious memory of the wild, unchecked grief whipped through him, stunning in its power to inflict fresh pain. The twenty-year-old wound throbbed anew, stirring all the old questions that accompany the bitterness o
f loss. In the end, it was emotion that made the decision for him. Specters from the past tugged at strings of guilt, love and regret.
But it was stirrings of a far different feeling that had him opening the center desk drawer, smoothing the tip of his finger down the smooth barrel of the snub-nosed .38 inside.
A thirst for vengeance.
Chapter 1
One Month Later
James Tremaine had not yet grown so jaded that he failed to appreciate an opportunity when one presented itself. Especially when that opportunity was the most attractively packaged eye candy he’d run across in more time than he cared to consider. Shaking the rain from his face, he cocked his head for a better view while he peeled off his gloves and, with uncharacteristic carelessness, shoved them into the pockets of his Prada raincoat.
The form balanced precariously on the ladder inside the doorway was only half-visible, but what was observable was unmistakably feminine. Denim clung to shapely hips and snugged across a curvy bottom before slicking down mile-long legs. His gaze lingered on those legs now, and hormones, too long suppressed, flickered to life. It took conscious effort to drag his eyes upward, to where the woman’s torso disappeared into the opening afforded by the missing panel in the suspended ceiling.
“You took your sweet time. I didn’t know whether you were ever coming, so I got started without you.”
Brows raising at the muffled words, James inquired, “Did you want some help?”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard a rather unladylike snort. “All that’s left for you to do is to hold the ladder. I’m nearly finished here.” He moved to obey, putting himself in even closer range to those long legs.
“I think the receptacle’s shot, so you’ll have to check that out. Probably needs to be replaced. You got the ladder?” Without waiting for a reply the woman started down it. “And you, my friend, can just put in some overtime fixing it. Serves you right for taking so long getting here.”